


Counterpoint

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Khan Noonien Singh isn’t a lucky man—but John Harrison is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Had a free moment to ficlet! But in public so couldn’t do the rating I wanted. :/ 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s been a long, grueling day, like most of them are at Section 31. The century-advanced torpedo specs are difficult enough, particularly under the beady-eyed watch of surrounding security officers, but Marcus is what makes it truly complicated. He watches Khan like a hawk, talons always scraping too close. Capital punishment, apparently, didn’t die out after Khan’s time like the computers all say it did. It’s unlikely Marcus knows of Khan’s true plans, but that doesn’t seem to be any reason not to bat him around between hard walls every time Section 31’s latest conquest gets held back by so much as an hour. Khan’s _mind isn’t in it._ That’s what Marcus says; that’s what the bruises along Khan’s covered arms are for. It’s cruel, but it’s true. 

His mind’s mostly on his _crew_ and a little bit on _this_ , the familiar aroma that fills him when he steps off the elevator. Her apartment’s right in front of him, door unlocked in the same trusting, naïve way so many people in this century do. Silly creatures, really. Corruption has no expiration date. 

Carol’s apartment is clean, organized, somewhat Spartan and otherwise pretty. The door slides shut behind him, and he doesn’t lock it, purely because he doesn’t know if she has a keycard, wherever she is. He kicks his shoes off at the door and shrugs his long trench from his shoulders. There’s a hanger attached to the sidewall for it—one of many adjustments she’s made for him. It’s turquoise, like half the furniture. 

The rest is white or gray, sometimes black, angular and modern. Her strategy and intelligence is everywhere—nothing awry or haphazard. He strolls past the kitchenette and pseudo-dining room without a second glance, bee-lining through the bedroom to hit the washroom. The door automatically clicks shut behind him, though it would open for her override. 

She wouldn’t interrupt him. She doesn’t know what he’s doing, but she wouldn’t burst in. 

Khan sits down on the closed toilet seat and lets out the sigh he’s been holding half the day, the sort of uncoiling he can only do when he’s sure he’s truly _safe_. He’s checked Carol’s quarters half a dozen times for bugs, but she’s a smart woman and would surely notice. Her father doesn’t know. They both understand the importance of discretion. There’s no need for him to know this. 

Khan’s skin still prickles with the uneasy feeling this whole time period gives him. It started with Marcus and it’ll only end there. He fishes a metallic rod out of his pocket and holds it to his palm as he lifts the other arm, scrunching up the sleeve of his black turtleneck. The angry red gashes beneath would make a lesser man flinch at the very least, but Khan only regards them with a pale detachment. They were worse in the office, but he heals well. Not well enough. She’ll notice. He’ll have questions he can’t explain, an incensed wild card he should’ve never become involved with. The wounds sting, but the shame of them is just as sharp. 

He holds the dermal regenerator over the slit across his wrist, half-dried with blood. The dermal regenerator is a new, still-clunky technology, but it works far better than anything else he’s used to. A worthwhile investment. He lets the device slowly light the way up his stained arm, staring fixedly at it while torn skin returns to something normal. 

He rolls his sleeve back down when he’s done, passing the tool over and clenching a fist, holding up the other arm. It’s just as damaged. He begins at the shoulder. 

There’s the hiss of a door beyond his, then footsteps. He can tell easily from the rhythm and weight of them who it is, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t waver. There’s a series of small punctures beneath the blue glow of the dermal regenerator to focus on. 

A soft knock on the door, and Carol’s accented voice asks him, “John?”

“Carol,” he replies seamlessly, with no intonation whatsoever. 

There is no answer, but he can almost feel her smile. She putters away, and he continues, a note of urgency now to it but his fingers no less careful, no faster. It’ll be a greater problem if he must explain how an office job ends in apparent whippings. (He’ll need more time to heal his back—he won’t be staying the night, as much as that pains him, even more so than the cuts.)

When he’s done, he tugs his shirt back into place. He flushes the toilet and runs the tap simply for the superficiality of it, then steps outside, senses finding her easily. She’s in the dining room, rearranging plates. 

She glances over her shoulder when he enters, and she chirps, “I’d forgotten the chocolate syrup for the dessert. Banana splits; hope you like them. I know you mostly live on Synthesized food, but frankly I think you deserve more than that, so I’ve decided I’m going to try and fatten you up a bit.” Despondent though he feels, he can’t help the faint smirk that twitches over his lips, nor the eyebrow that lifts a few millimeters. She smiles warmly back, turning back to the table. Her sunshine yellow hair swishes after her. 

And then her back’s to him, and she’s setting forks and knives around plates of what he knows _she_ cooked for him, like the antithesis of everything back at ‘the office.’ When she smiles, she glows like an angel, not so much proverbial as inexplicable. He glances at the table she’s prepared, and he’s almost too numb for it. He doesn’t deserve this, deserve her, and he doesn’t deserve Marcus, either. The family’s a strange dichotomy playing tricks on his head, and it’s unfortunate that Marcus came first today—the entropy has left him too hollow for her kindness.

He’s still bristling from earlier. He was close—so _close_ —to masking life-signs through the shields, but he was discovered. It was taken for a miscalculation. It still set him back. He doesn’t know how he’ll get around it. He doesn’t want to sit down and eat like a gentleman today—he wants to flip tables over and punch holes in the walls. He spent the elevator ride up deviating between freezing with atrophy and shaking with rage. He gets up here, and sometimes he doesn’t think it’s real. 

She passes him in the direction of the counter, but he’s grabbed a hold of her wrist before she’s gotten very far. She’s barely looked around when he spins her, twirls her closer, pulls her right up into himself, body right against him. She puts her hands on his shoulders of her own volition—maybe to stabilize. She feels small and fragile in his arms—a pretty little flower he could _crush so very easily._

Sometimes he wishes he were the _John Harrison_ she wants, a simple man with simple needs, and that this would be enough. 

“John?” He enjoys her breathy voice. It’s a comfort, at least. “Is everything alright...?” Concern’s all over: knowledge she has no right to have.

He kisses her mostly for a distraction. It’s easy, really, to suck her in. He tilts his head and she tilts for him, and he leans in a fraction and she lets herself fall into it, lets him slip his long fingers into the back of her hair. It’s silky and light, and he cradles her head like the precious thing it is. Her lips are soft and wet. Her mouth is warm. He kisses her slowly, gently. He always has to be careful, so careful. 

When he pulls back, he puts his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes and breathes her in, her flowery deodorant and her sugar-stained breath. He just needs the moment. He doesn’t say anything. 

She asks, “Hard day?” There’s a pause where he doesn’t answer, but his fingers tighten in her waist. “...Want a massage?”

 _Yes._ Her hands all over him.

He can’t take his shirt off yet.

He has the fleeting thought of telling her—letting her heal him, letting her storm to her father, letting him punish Khan’s crew for all the insolence in the air, and Khan would simply _run off with Carol,_ to the moon or the stars. ...But then reality sweeps back to him, and he says, “No.” He considers saying he wants her dinner. He just wants _her_.

He says something that used to be a tool to ensnare the Admiral’s daughter, but is now a hollow reflection of things he wishes he had. Really had, not just leasing until the truth spills out. He mutters a blunt, “I love you,” and keeps holding her tight against him. 

“I love you too, John.” ...The fake name—the one her father gave him—is an icy stab at his steel-plated heart. 

He wants to throw her down on the carpet. 

He wants to ravage her or ravish her and mark her, make her his irreparably. 

But instead he lets her go, and he tugs her by one frail wrist to the table. He offers her a seat like they did in an older time, and he takes his own. 

And he takes a deep breath, half wishing he were John.


	2. ~

Some days it’s just hollow bitterness, others it’s rage. Today it’s that boiling snarl at the back of his throat. Marcus was nowhere near the office. No messages came in. A slow Sunday; just him and one or two others. He sat in his little makeshift cubicle off to the side and punched numbers into screens. 

Somehow, the lack of stimulation just broiled his hatred. With nothing else to focus on, all he thought of all day is how unfair and ridiculous and biting this new world is, how much he wishes he’d stayed back then to _conquer._ He should be a king in a palace, not some bound office worker. 

He should have Carol for a queen, and he’s sitting on her bed when she comes home. 

It’s one of those days. She knows them. She knows what he needs. She’ll cater to it, because when she comes crying to him—mostly about how her _beloved father_ has shut her out—he holds her and tells her things will be alright. He brushes her hair from her wet eyes and lets her bury herself in his shoulder. He’s picked her up once or twice from difficult places, brought her dinner when she’s too encased in work, massaged her shoulders when she’s stiff. She sees him today and she drops her bag. 

She smiles softly and tells him, “Five minutes.” Back to the living room: the door is locked, just in case. He nods after her and sits where he is, his trench and his shoes still on. He’s pristine today, but he stays dressed anyway. She putters about and takes off her shoes, finger-combs her hair as she walks, and strips out of her dress right in front of him—it’s a laced, blue confection that he knows she likes: something she doesn’t want him to rip. He breaks things when he’s like this. 

She continues about in her bra and panties. She spends two minutes in the washroom and emerges with all her makeup still on, her eyes encased in a black sort of fog. She’s self-confident and seamless. She strolls towards him and slips her fingers over his leather-clad shoulders, and she asks quietly, “How would you like me?”

Because he’s going to _have_ her; they both know that. He needs to expel this energy, needs to feel powerful, needs to _own_ something. 

The fact that this will entail violating Marcus’ prized possession is a nice bonus, but really, he’d enjoy her either way. 

He enjoys grabbing her tiny waist and throwing her down to the mattress, her legs tangled over his lap and her lips parting to gasp. He climbs over her like a panther, all black against her pale skin. She calls, “Lights, thirty percent,” just before he shoves their mouths together. He can feel her breath cut off, and he catches it, and he shoves his tongue into her and pries her open wider. She wraps her arms around his neck, happy to be along for the ride. 

He takes her to pieces, warm all over, tight in his arms. She clutches to him when he bites, when he snarls, when he takes her hard and rough, a few words and she’s wet for him. She kisses him better, helps him come down. 

Everything in this world isn’t hell. 

He’ll save all the best parts.

An exiled king and a someday-queen roll around in their sheets, growling out their names and stars.


	3. ~

It’s the strangest near the end. 

They’re in bed together at her apartment, her on her side and him watching her back, taking in her subtle curves and pouring over torpedo specs in his head. She’s a weapon’s specialist—sometimes he wonders how long it would take her to discover his rouse, faced with one of his armed cryo-shells. She could probably take it apart so much better than Marcus’ men: a valuable ally. If he could find a way to smuggle her off with the rest of them, she would be, anyway, but since she’s so very conscious, it would be considerably more difficult...

She rolls over suddenly, the light behind her playing over her yellow hair and makeup-less face, and she says, “I don’t understand it.” Her eyebrows knit together. Her accent makes her confusion particularly cute. He reaches out to rub her shoulder: support for whatever she needs. “He’s never left me out before.”

His hand falls away. _That_.

Carol goes on, shaking her head and glaring down at her pillow like it had anything at all to do with this mess. “I went to talk to him again last night, and he wouldn’t even see me—” She glances back at Khan and adds, “Sorry, I forgot to mention that was why I was late.”

He grins at her, the kind straddling a smirk that lets her know he’s perfectly alright. “You were understandably distracted.”

She lights up for a fraction of a second and laughs, lightly pushing his chest beneath the blankets. “Yes,” she goes on. “But unfortunately we can’t have sex twenty-four seven, so I do need to think about this sometime...”

Khan just smiles shallowly: more support. 

He thinks about the irritation of her father enough, why shouldn’t she? They can wallow in hatred for him together. 

They’re both off today and wallowing in bed, spent from all the different kinds of work he puts them separately through, and Khan has no intention of pulling on a stitch of clothing before noon. It isn’t that he needs the rest, because he absolutely doesn’t, but if he can take a few hours out of his busy schedule to fuck Marcus’ daughter then he happily will. In a way, his happiness is the greatest spite to Marcus. 

And Marcus, apparently, is going to have to face more than just Khan’s wrath. Carol punches her pillow—an uncommon display of anger. “It’s just not _fair_. He could at least have the decency to tell me why before he takes away all my clearance. I feel like I’ve been demoted and disowned all in one swoop for no good reason.” 

Then she stiffens suddenly, and he watches the way her eyes grow wider, the way she swerves back to look at him, shuffling just a bit closer. She asks in a whisper, as though her father can hear them even now, “You don’t think he knows about us, do you?”

Khan says, “No,” with full confidence. Because if Marcus did know, Khan would be dead. 

He leans forward to peck Carol on the lips. It’s the only thing he can think of to make her feel better. He can’t tell her that her father’s become a power hungry megalomaniac, not yet. He can’t risk it until this builds, until she boils, until she’s just enough away from him to maybe pick Khan’s side. It’s his good fortunate that she’s run into this wall. He never thought he’d be able to take her when this first started.

Now he thinks about it constantly, and he knows she’d be a valuable member on his bridge. 

And in his bed. 

She rolls onto her back in her own bed. She’s got the blanket held up over her breasts, and he tugs it down, mostly just to make her smile and laugh again. He deals with enough anger and sorrow at work to see it here. 

She switches gears like a bullet, chuckling, “Come here, you.” She grabs his chin and uses it to pull him closer for a deeper kiss. She tastes like morning breath. It doesn’t bother him anymore. 

When they part, she looks at him, keeping her hand on his face, and her thumb brushes his chin, and her fingers brush back through his hair. She looks at him with such innocence, such trust, such adoration that Khan feels as powerful as he did on his ancient throne; her loyalty is, in some ways, better than an army’s. 

She mumbles softly, “You’d never hold anything from me, would you, John?” Her face is strong, but her eyes are pleading: _don’t turn out to be like my father._

There’s something hard in Khan’s stomach as he whispers, “Never.” What’s one lie in a thousand?

He leans down again to kiss her collarbone, heading down her body. She seems contented. He’ll make a distraction to swallow up emotions. 

Whose, he’s no longer sure.


End file.
